Ira Invicta: Colonial Wrath
by Heorot
Summary: The Twelve Colonies are hit hard by the Cylons, but more than just the Galactica manages to survive the nuclear holocaust. Those that remain to fight the long war are as ruthless and uncompromising as the Cylons themselves, and must follow a different path than Adama and his refugee fleet.
1. Chapter 1

_Raptor Two-Niner-Two_

_Battlestar Group 77_

In his mind's eye, he could see the brilliant drama of combat unfold every time. His imagination easily conjured up the images: those of heavy guns – KEWs – going off, of flak fields being hastily erected, of countless attack missiles shooting away. Peering forward through the raptor's canopy, the bulky craft loitering slowly overhead as it awaited clearance to land, Major Carson Xhanda felt an odd sensation of both wonder and déjà vu. That broad grey-metal hull, those gun hoists and turrets – presently still and silent – and her crocodilian silhouette still inspired a rising pride and flutter in his chest.

Of course, the liquor was perhaps responsible for that too, the Major noted with a thin smile.

It was thus with him grinning like an idiot that his musings were curtly interrupted, the pilot at his side, a pretty and lithe lieutenant fresh from the academy, glancing sideways at him.

"Sir," she crisply reported, the comm-chatter, inaudible to Xhanda, plainly having been routed through her helmet. "Svarog's given us the all-clear. Seems Colonel Coverely scheduled a fuel spill drill while both you and he were aboard the Augustus, hence the delay."

Having begun the process of composing himself into the mold more or less expected of a Colonial officer when she'd looked at him, Xhanda quickly abandoned the attempt in favor of grinning fully. A brief laugh escaped him, his dark eyes dancing across the passing hull as the pilot deftly maneuvered their raptor around over to the Svarog's rear.

"That's just his style," he said, amused.

"You weren't aware of the drill, sir?" the pilot questioned, an eyebrow curiously upraised.

"Isn't his style to let me know," Xhanda responded, the exchange ending with that.

Lacking flight pods, the Gunstar Svarog instead had a single relatively small flight deck located in a gap between its two engine blocks. Whilst he'd by now gotten used to it, approaching the flight deck with two roaring and active engines on either side of one's raptor was nevertheless somewhat unnerving for most fresh pilots. To her credit however, Xhanda's pilot managed to take the bird in without any problems, approaching the open bay doors and settling the raptor down atop one of the lifts.

She wasn't quite a battlestar, Xhanda quietly mused, but he thought her a beauty regardless.

–

_CIC_

_Gunstar Svarog_

_Battlestar Group 77_

Whilst Xhanda was still waiting for landing clearance from the Svarog, the attention of all the CIC's crew was focused resolutely on two bickering figures positioned at its direct center; on opposite sides of the plot table. One was a broad and burly brute of Gemenese descent, with chocolate colored skin, a bald head, and a thin regulation goatee. His counterpart: a spry, pale, and thin Aerilon native, who was smaller by several inches in both width and height. Grease and oil stains were visible all across the front of his orange jumpsuit, and some upon his cheeks as well.

Affixed to the lapel of the larger man were the golden pins of a major, the other bearing those of a master chief petty officer.

"With respect, sir-" began the chief.

"Now hold on there, Chief," Major Zeno Giannoupolis said, staring the smaller man down. "I'm getting this feeling that nothing you're 'bout to say is in any way respectful, so let's get a few things straight here."

A single finger emphatically rose. "This ain't a carrier, we ain't meant to be deploying viper squadrons nor retrieving them in any quantity."

Its first twin. "We don't have a dedicated deck crew, deck chief, or anything more than the most basic facilities to maintain our birds."

The unwelcome third digit. "Yet we're expected to maintain some kind of standard of quality re-frakking-gardless."

His face flushed, his anger rising, Master Chief Petty Officer Simeon Colls responded: "the drill was-"

"The drill's the problem, Colls!" Giannoupolis shot back, cutting him off near immediately. He beat his fist against the clipboard clasped in the opposite hand, having by now certainly succeeded in attracting the attention of literally all eyes and ears in the CIC. His gaze briefly wandered across those various curious faces, and the Major quickly recognized the need to end this exchange swiftly.

"I won't berate you further," he concluded, letting out a sigh as he glanced at the chart again. "Ten minutes is an unacceptable figure. It'd be unacceptable on a civilian liner, and it's doubly so aboard a vessel of war. I don't need to tell you, I hope, what the implications would be if a fire had started – if it had spread to any of the auxiliary fuel lines beneath the flight deck."

In silence, he considered the other man for the span of several seconds, yet again managing to preempt any reply from the enlisted man: "you know your duties, dismissed chief."

Uneasily, his irritation very much plain, Colls saluted. "I'll drill my men, sir," he simply said, spinning upon the heel of his boot and striding out from the CIC.

An uncertain silence thus reigned for some moments in the CIC as the crew shared curious and almost anxious looks, as though fearing that they might be tempting fate by speaking. This lasted but a spell however, and soon the comfortable auditory undercurrent of consistent activity and several dozen conversing bodies resumed.

Sighing, Giannoupolis shifted his attention back down to the clipboard, setting it atop the plot table and slowly ruffling through the pages. Ten minutes to deal with a fuel spill drill, ten entire minutes. It was truly a shocking figure, and the Major had no doubt it was one Colonel Coverley would be quite disappointed with upon his return. He dreaded that conversation, for it was ultimately Giannoupolis' responsibility as the engineering department head aboard the Svarog to ensure the enlisted personnel were able to properly respond to such emergencies.

Ten minutes, he mused. Enough time for the fuel fumes to spread throughout the entire hangar deck, and more than enough time for some random bit of idle activity to cause it all to ignite. If the fumes had been given time to circulate in the Svarog's lone rearward hangar deck, any fire then would be like having a tactical warhead go off between the vessel's two engines – something which no one was particularly eager to deal with, least of all him.

"Lieutenant Agun," he called out, lifting his head and addressing the thin tac-officer the Svarog had recently received. Much to his disappointment – and simultaneous elation – Captain Orion Destuyes, who'd served in that capacity previously, had been promoted up toe Major and been chosen to partake in Advanced Command classes back on Picon. Having lost an experienced staffer, they'd instead been granted a tall and lanky girl fresh from the academy, though she'd proven herself more or less competent up to this point.

"Sir," Lieutenant Dorian Agun reported, stepping up to the table from her former station by the nav console. Her slightly sunken cheeks gave her a severe appearance. She'd make a truly terrifying XO one day, Giannoupolis reflected.

"At this time, add an additional two drills for the hangar schedule. Mark one down for 0445 tomorrow, and again at 1725. I'll make further revisions following consultation with the Colonel," he ordered, glancing down at his watch meanwhile.

"Do you want me to liaise with the chief, sir?" she slowly asked, taking down notes on a slip of paper she'd produced from somewhere.

"Not at this time. I'll be conducting the drill myself, assuming the XO doesn't want the privilege."

A wince, however briefly, crossed the lieutenant's features. She gathered her notes and bustled off, moving to make the arrangements for the new exercises. Indeed, having Major Xhanda conduct drills was something of a dubious honor, the Svarog's crew had learned over the last year. Whilst the man generally affected an affable and friendly manner, he was a harsh taskmaster during drills, and would often create truly challenging and creative scenarios for the crew to deal with.

In the previous hull breach drill, he'd gone along the length of the ship and marked random areas with an erasable red marker. After a few hours had gone by, with a handful of spots unfound, he'd proclaimed everyone as dead and sidled much of the engineering chief with extra duties for the week. Later, he'd reveal that many of the marks he'd made had been behind pipes, inbetween bulkheads, and on even on ceilings.

"A dubious honor indeed," Giannoupolis murmured, smiling lightly.

–

_Staff Quarters_

_Battlestar Augustus_

_Battlestar Group 77_

"How are you finding her, Tom?" the Admiral asked between laughs, a few drops of ambrosia having by now stained the front of his uniform and the mahogany table around which they all sat. After a particularly hilarious joke made by the departing Major Xhanda, the remaining command staff in attendance for this informal little meeting had been left in disarray, giggling like schoolchildren.

"She's a good ship," Colonel Thomas Coverley said with an almost wolfish grin, abruptly aware that his shot glass was by now entirely empty. Leaning forward, Admiral Horace Leece topped him off, grinning slightly as he lifted up his own cup: "to tall ships!" he offered as a toast.

The other three men there in the staff quarters happily repeated his words, likewise downing their drinks. Aside from the Admiral and the Svarog's CO, Colonel Erasmus Krakk of the Gunstar Frejyr, and Colonel Uriah Dayes of the Gunstar Therion were also present. Major Carson Xhanda, Coverley's XO, had departed several minutes ago, as had Commander Demetrios Georgon, who was head of the Battlestar Bellerophon.

"She's a bit different, isn't she?" Krakk spoke up, his fingers playing across the rim of his cup. Looking up, his dark eyes wandered between the assembled men. "From the Frejyr and Therion, I mean. Sort of the mark 2 of the Jormungandr class, isn't she?"

"Mark 3," Dayes swiftly corrected, grinning ahead at his compatriot, sitting directly opposite him in one of the Admiral's quite comfortable armchairs. "c'mon, Ras, you've been on gunstar duty for the last half-decade," he added with a laugh.

"Things are wavy right now," Krakk replied, dismissively waving one hand. The alcohol was potent, sure enough.

"Not really new anymore, though," the Admiral said, speaking slowly. "The Jormungandr-class, mark III, yes. I can't name them all off the top of my head, but the design's at least eight years old now."

"First boat was the Eris," he sagely added a moment later, bobbing his head forward.

"What's the difference anyway? I haven't gotten any of the briefing slips on my desk yet, and far as I can tell she's just a little bigger and faster," Krakk asked, idly tossing his shot glass from one hand to the other.

Coverley spoke up here, having been content to simply observe the exchange with some degree of amusement. "The mark III is longer, and a bit broader in the prow. Engines were improved and up-armored, with the gun hoists redesigned and the new auto-feeds that are in the Mercuries put in. Actually–" he glanced at the Admiral for confirmation here, "it's about twice as expensive as the mark II, now that it's got two FTL cores."

"Much to President Adar's dismay, gods damn him," the Admiral nodded, prompting general laughter from the gathered Colonels.

–

_CIC_

_Gunstar Svarog_

_Battlestar Group 77_

The Augustus, as was her wont as the flagship of BSG 77, had taken the lead. Just off her starboard flank was the Gunstar Therion, running close escort duty for the larger Battlestar. A few thousand kilometers out, a similar scene was visible: the Bellerophon, though at a slight angle, essentially following in the Augustus' wake with the Frejyr aligned off her port side.

This was a formation typical of Admiral Leece, Xhanda had learned, with the Admiral thus positioning his vessels optimally for either the quick formation of a skirmish line, or for a potential envelopment. In the wargames, Colonel Coverely had told him, Leece routinely split his forces, no matter how limited already, into smaller taskforces intended to conduct various assignments independently but in conjunction. This didn't gain him any popularity with the reigning military chiefs, but it did win him many victories at said exercises; his refusal to concentrate his forces making them extraordinarily difficult to find, pin down, and eliminate.

From the Svarog's perspective, the rest of the Battlestar Group was directly ahead, with she pulling rearguard duty for this patrol. In truth, that didn't bother Xhanda, though he knew that it might be considered unfitting for a craft as relatively new (at least compared to the two other gunstars in the group) as her. It just made sense, all in all, for the DRADIS and sensor suites fitted to the Svarog were spades more advanced and modern than anything installed aboard the Therion or Frejyr.

It was at that DRADIS screen which he presently stared, having relieved Giannoupolis an hour earlier and assumed his position on the bridge, just beside the plot table.

"Adjust bearing oh-oh-two coreward on the X," he directed petty officer Cathart, the helmsman.

A very slight change, one which turned the Svarog to follow the group in a straight line; the Bellerophon and Augustus having shifted slightly to the galactic left in their course.

"Who has the midwatch today?" Xhanda softly asked the duty officer nearby, who consulted her chart quickly.

"Captain Cai has it, sir," the woman responded, finding the appropriate timeslot.

"Swap her out with Lieutenant Vadim. The Admiral wants to conduct a jump test, and I want to see how well the kid can plot them."

"Very good sir," she said, hustling off to make the necessary arrangements.

That concluded, the Major simply allowed his eyes to wander, his irises idly drifting over random crewmen. They were performing well enough – save for that fuel spill debacle – but the monotony of the patrol had begun to set in, and a good few were starting to get bored of life aboard a ship of war. It was to be expected, he supposed. There were some material comforts to be had, but life on the Svarog was still a fair bit more basic than they were generally used to.

His gaze paused upon a nearby screen, it having switched off whilst an enlisted man poked about underneath it. For a moment, Xhanda considered his reflection, peering intently forward at the man staring back at him upon the glass display.

He could be considered a poster-boy for the fleet, he supposed. With a slim build, slicked back and carefully trimmed dark hair, and round if firm features, he'd found that whilst it was perhaps difficult for him to put on an intimidating facade, it was quite easy to appear professional. Better yet, his wide cheeks and thin eyes – he having the epicanthic fold typical of the folk of Tauron's great steppes – granted him an amiable appearance, and the crew had begun to like him immediately.

Lost in self-reflection, he was momentarily taken aback when the comms operator, PO Desmond Torrec, announced his message for the second time: "sir? Augustus reports DRADIS contact at extreme range; they're turning to intercept."

Blinking, Xhanda instructed for the DRADIS feed from the Augustus to be brought onto one of the spare screens, squinting up at it as soon as it was. Sure enough, the Augustus had veered slightly to port so as to intercept, the Bellerophon and escorts following in her wake.

"Helm, adjust oh-one-seven, oh-oh-seven, oh-oh-two," he said, "inform the Augustus that we're going to adopt a slow picket pattern between one-oh-oh and two-two-oh off her starboard side."

"Augustus acknowledges and approves," came the confirmation a second later, thus granting the Svarog permission to maneuver as she desired.

Xhanda's logic here was quite simple. He reasoned that the contact, though unusually large, was probably a freighter or pirate vessel, given that it wasn't squawking even a civilian IFF. As such, it was likely that either the Augustus or Bellerophon would have to board her, and so would be combat ineffective in case any of the pirate's buddy's showed up. Whilst the two other gunstars and another battlestar would be available, it was still standard procedure for a picket of some sort to be established whilst such potentially time consuming operations were taking place.

Besides, he thought with a grin, taking the initiative in such a manner was a good way to put oneself on the path to promotions.

"Augustus reports she's not responding to hails," Torrec reported, a finger placed against the comm-bead within his right ear. He took the liberty of putting it on the overhead speakers, something Xhanda frequently ordered anyway.

"This is the Colonial Battlestar Augustus hailing unknown vessel; identify yourself and respond or we will fire upon you."

Silence. That was perhaps a bit odd, but not really unexpected. What _was _unexpected was the ship's course.

"Sir, she's CBDR with the Augustus, ETA 10 minutes," Lieutenant Agun said, peering sideways at Xhanda from her console beside the operations table.

"She's not turning away?" Xhanda asked, surprised. His eyebrows shot up, and that tiny tingling in the back of his head which alerted him to imminent danger abruptly began. "Set condition one throughout the ship, then, sound action stations. If she's not turning, then she means to have a fight of it."

With a dutiful nod, Agun turned away. A moment later, klaxons began to blare overhead, her voice loudly projected throughout the ship by the PA system: "action stations, action stations. Set condition one throughout the ship. This is not a drill. Action stations, actions stations, set condition one throughout the ship. Department heads report to CIC upon manning of action stations, that is all."

His features suddenly grim, Xhanda quietly watched the drama unfold on his DRADIS screen.

–

_CIC_

_Battlestar Augustus_

_Battlestar Group 77_

Roused from their reverie by the officer of the watch, the Admiral and his three attendant colonels quickly reported to the CIC after the DRADIS contact was first spotted. They made something of an odd crowd, all four of them gathered around the DRADIS displays and plot table, each one peering expectantly upward.

They assumed that the oncoming vessel was a pirate only for a minute, but her dimensions and mass didn't match any of the known Colonial civilian or military patterns – off of which pirate ships were invariably based. Assuming the worse, the Admiral had ordered BSG 77 up to condition one, praying it wasn't but expecting the unknown contact to be a Cylon. Sharing a quick look with his comms-officer, he plucked up the conn set atop the console before him, lifting it up to his face.

"This is the Colonial Battlestar Augustus," he sent again, his voice firm. "To the Cylon vessel approaching us," Admiral Leece began, hearing an audible intake of air from around the CIC, "you are in violation of the Cimtar Peace Accords and on the Colonial side of the Armistice line. Respond immediately or we will fire upon you."

He placed the mic down, his gaze flickering between the comms-officer – who shook his head – and the overhead DRADIS displays.

"We sure she's a Cylon?" Dayes questioned, his features furrowed with worry.

"Can't be anything else," Coverely murmured, keeping his voice low, mindful of the surrounding personnel. "Pirates wouldn't charge at us. Best change for them would be to turn away and try to spool up their FTLs."

"Doesn't make sense for a single Cylon to turn into us either, though," Krakk put in, each of the colonels now offering some commentary. "If she's here on recon, she wouldn't want to be seen by us; let alone come charging right at us. Something smells odd about all this," he said with a grunt.

Slowly, Dayes and Coverely offered their concurrence, each one of them fixing the Admiral with a look.

"Gentlemen, I'm aware of the strange nature of this encounter. At present, we will proceed as we'd planned. If she wishes to engage us, then we will do so," Leece firmly stated, lifting up the conn again.

"All hands, prepare for combat maneu–"

He was cut off as the lights went off, all the displays, consoles, computers, and systems in the CIC simultaneously shutting down.

–

_CIC_

_Gunstar Svarog_

_Battlestar Group 77_

A brief bout of general pandemonium reigned in the Svarog's CIC as the corrupted CNP took control and in unison disabled all the systems within every single ship in BSG 77. Enlisted personnel and officers both were scrambling about attempting to ascertain the cause of the problem, communication within the ship being conducted almost entirely by way of courier.

Xhanda was bent over, peering into a console; having cracked open the massive computer linked to the DRADIS displays and sensor suite for a look inside. Whilst not an engineer by any measure, he had spent enough time in many different CICs to understand the fundamentals of how many such systems operated. Emergency power had come on, which at least allowed for some lights and a small amount of situational awareness. DRADIS was working, at a limited capacity, and so were many of the passive sensors – operating on their own unintegrated software, given how specialized some of those systems were. Many similar scenes were on display throughout the entirety of the ship, as the Svarog's engineering detail did its best to try and remedy the problem.

At first this state of affairs had been merely puzzling, a challenge and mystery to overcome, but now it had become truly alarming. As soon as the emergency power had kicked in, Xhanda noted that it appeared the rest of the battlestar group was undergoing similar issues. The Augustus, at the head of the formation, had listed heavily to port and just barely missed impacting against the Bellerophon as she moved forward, unpowered, through the void. The formation had dissolved as each of the ships swung in whatever direction they'd been going when power died off, driven solely by their inertia. Worse yet, that mysterious contact continued to draw closer at an oddly languid pace, having taken half an hour to take up a position above the Augustus when it'd previously been powering forward at a speed that'd have taken it only ten.

Lieutenant Agun came running into the CIC, literally hopping over a nearby petty officer busy at work beside a console so as to get to Xhanda.

"Sir!" she reported, snapping a hasty salute. Squinting up at her, Xhanda motioned for her to continue.

"The raptors are still operational. The pilots were able to spool them up and do a full systems check; all green. Unfortunately, we can't get the hangar doors open without power, so we can't send them out."

"Comms?"

"Comms are green, we've been able to talk with the Bellerophon and the Frejyr. Commander Georgon reports similar problems aboard his ship, as does Major Theod aboard the Frejyr."

"Any word on the Admiral and Colonel Coverely?" asked Xhanda, very much curious as to where his CO was and how he was faring.

"Negative, sir. The Frejyr is having similar problems with her hangar bay doors, and the Bellerophon's lifts don't work on emergency power, so she can't launch raptors."

"Raptors," the Major repeated, lifting up an eyebrow. "What about Vipers? The catapults don't need power to operate."

"Negative, sir," the woman repeated, shaking her head somberly from side to side. "The Vipers are having similar problems with their systems. All of them are dead on the deck, all systems checks performed on every mark seven being in he red. They can't even get the engines revved up."

Murmuring a creative profanity, Xhanda stepped away from the console he'd been working at, bidding a nearby Ensign to take over the task. He lead the Lieutenant over to the plot table, where the rough positions of the battlestar group were plotted – their drift being continuously accounted for by Lieutenant Vadim, who'd made the table his home for the last hour.

"What's the problem with the Augustus and the Therion? They've got raptors aboard," came the next question, Lieutenant Vadim jumping up a bit, mid-calculation, as they abruptly appeared. Offering the man a conciliatory nod first, Xhanda then looked back at Agun.

Biting her lip, Agun rolled back her shoulders. "The tac-officer aboard the Bellerophon believes she's drifted out of comms-range for the raptor by now, along with her escort. The raptors don't have as powerful an array as the gunstars or battlestars, so it's likely she–"

"Radiological alarm!" came the cry, Vadim having been the first to notice the blaring from the DRADIS display and sensor console. "Twelve inbound nukes, spread out across the fleet!"

"Frak!" Xhanda loudly let out, banging his fist hard against the plot table. He gave Agun a push, pointing towards the exit. "Get those frakking bay doors open right the frak now, send out all our raptors back to the colonies!"

Dutifully, Agun made off without another word, positively dashing out of the CIC as she made to obey the command.

There was nothing he could do, Xhanda realized after a moment, his eyes wandering across all the different stations throughout the room. Absolutely nothing. It infuriated, frustrated, and terrified him all at once. It was so remarkably unfair, that he and his crew were now consigned to a death outside their control, for reasons they were entirely ignorant to, by an enemy unknown, and by methodology uncertain.

Nothing he could do.

The Augustus was first consumed by nuclear flames, the DRADIS display shimmering as radioactive interference rendered it useless for a moment. Two further nukes hit the venerable battlestar, rendering the Mercury-class flagship to scrap metal within the span of several seconds. From the amount of interference and the reported size of the blast, Xhanda inferred that yield on the warheads utilized was quite high indeed.

At least death should come quickly, and painlessly, Xhanda reasoned.

Next was the Frejyr, which had drifted off some from the Bellerophon. A pair of warheads slammed into its starboard section, entirely eradicating the gunstar. Xhanda spent a few seconds, precious as these last few now were, to offer a quiet prayer to the gods. Around the CIC, similar scenes were easily visible, as the crew all slowly became cognizant of the dire straits they now found themselves in.

Two warheads detonated in open space, one just off from the Bellerophon and another amidst the wreckage of the Augustus. Perhaps the Bellerophon had managed to launch fighters, Xhanda thought. The biggest explosion yet occurred when the Bellerophon was hit, the DRADIS display blanking out entirely and not at all resolving as several enormous nuclear detonations went off against the battlestar's hull. Having kept a keen eye on the display, Xhanda reckoned that two missiles were left for the Svarog – two missiles which would easily take out the Svarog in her current state.

Looking about, he cast his gaze across the CIC, raising his voice to be heard by everyone within it. "Join me," he bid them, closing his eyes and clasping his hands together, "in a final prayer."

A half hour later, he was left wondering why he and the Svarog were still alive.


	2. Chapter 2

_Flight Deck_

_Gunstar Svarog_

_BSG 77_

Giannoupolis allowed himself a tiny moment of satisfaction as he surveyed his handiwork, standing on the flight deck clad in a full EVA suit. He'd been outside a mere moment earlier, having had to strip away some of the plating alongside a handful of other engineers so as to reveal the complex network of circuitry, wires, and pipes which were concealed deep inside the Svarog's hull. There, they'd managed to reroute a number of the power feed cables to allow for the hangar door (and lifts) to draw power directly from the emergency generator, thus getting both systems operational.

Now inside, he'd been the one to press the button to get that enormous blast door finally slide open. A grin split his features, barely visible to the gaggle of deckhands and engineers surrounding him, as he now contemplated this small success.

In many ways, the Svarog was over-engineered. He'd suspected that from the start, since he'd first laid eyes on her schematics, but it'd never been readily apparent. With the first Jormungandr class vessels having been deliberately basic, so as to allow them to fight an enemy which would readily use Colonial technological sophistication against it, successive iterations upon the original Mk. I would attempt to slowly address that "problem" as the Cylon threat gradually died down. The end result was the Mk. III, which due to several odd intricacies in design and engineering, was constructed in a way which was sometimes oddly counter-intuitive to general operations. Giannoupolis suspected that this had more to do with a desire by the government to satisfy civilian contractors – who often had hands in the government – than because of any real military demand for complicated vessels.

He'd made an amendment to the power feeds, and so now the various systems necessary for the operation of the flight deck could now also draw power from the emergency generator as well as the primary fusion reactor.

Lieutenant Agun, at his side, looked suitably impressed. "You did quick work, sir," she stated, her gaze approving as she likewise now observed the results of his efforts. "We'll send out a pair of raptors immediately, if that's all right."

"Probably best. You head on back to CIC and tell them that we've managed to get at least this much working. I'll have a few men running up and down from here to there soon as we get any word on what's going on out there," Giannoupolis responded, waving a hand vaguely forward. Without further commentary, and naught but a quick salute, the Lieutenant quickly scampered off to see to her assigned task.

Already, various engineering, maintenance, and repair crews of assorted specialties were swarming through the Svarog from stern to bow, frantically attempting to address whatever problem was the source of the widespread power failure. Much to Giannoupolis' concern and disappointment, there'd been absolutely no progress made on that front thus far. Insofar as the teams he sent out could ascertain, the hardware was without fault. Even the reactor, which had for all intents and purposes shut down simultaneously with everything else, was still technically capable of functioning at one-hundred percent efficiency, the techs who'd gone inside it to take a look reported.

If hardware wasn't the issue, then it was perhaps software that was. Unfortunately, given that the Svarog wasn't a battlestar – and thus not host to a particularly extensive or powerful network – computer technicians were in somewhat low supply aboard the gunstar. Nonetheless, Giannoupolis wandered off towards the reactor room, intent on testing his theory.

–

_CIC_

_Gunstar Svarog_

_BSG 77_

He was alive. More importantly, so too were its crew and the Svarog itself. The fact that now, nearly an hour after the rest of the group had been eradicated amidst nuclear fire, they were still alive was a confusing and even troubling one.

Xhanda had first suspected that they'd be or already had been boarded, and so ordered marine teams dispatched to critical junctions across the ship. Yet, that fear had quickly subsided when DRADIS resolved and showed that there were absolutely no other contacts in space around the Svarog. For all intents and purposes, it would appear that they were either overlooked or spared from destruction by some whim.

Even so, whilst they'd somehow managed to escape destruction, the Svarog remained dead in the void. The previous hour, after the crew had calmed down sufficiently from what was already perceived as a harrowing near-death experience, was spent in a state of frantic activity as the CIC was quite literally disassembled, comprehensively examined, and put back together in various orders. It was already beginning to frustrate Xhanda as to how few results they were able to show for their work, and his irritation was writ across his face as he turned to address Agun.

"Status?" he asked of her, she having been charged with coordinating the various response and repair teams in their unified effort to restore the ship to operational order. Whilst Giannoupolis was in fact meant to figure out just _how _that would happen, all the couriers ultimately reported to her, so she was essentially responsible for making sure they indeed got to it.

"Major Giannoupolis has managed to get the hangar bay doors and lifts operational by rerouting the power feeds from the primary generator to the emergency one. He's actually sent out two raptors, sir, to figure out what's going on out there," the woman efficiently responded, consulting her notes.

"They're communicating with the ones still onboard, correct?"

"Yessir, since it seems that the raptor systems are unaffected by whatever shut down ours. So far, the two crews we sent out report that things are all-clear. We've loaded the birds up with a full ordnance package and put them up on CAP while we get our collective shit together."

Xhanda nodded his approval, making a slight amendment to her plan. "We might not have everything working, but we've still got gravity and pressure. Send out four more birds to recon each of the group's ships. I don't expect that the nukes left much, but I want to make damn sure that there are no survivors left amidst the wreckage."

"That'll leave only two on the deck to respond to any emergencies, sir," Agun pointed out.

"Frak, Lieutenant, I know that," the Major testily replied, his gaze flickering absently towards the overhead DRADIS screens. At his side, Lieutenant Vadim was busy at work with the nearby nav console, fiddling with its innards. "The fact remains that we're sitting ducks either way until we get power back up; having a few extra raptors up won't change that."

"I'm not so sure, sir. If we equip one of our nukes to a raptor–"

Lowering his voice, Xhanda took the woman aside, placing a hand upon her shoulder and leading her away to a more isolated part of the CIC. Already quite preoccupied, they went unnoticed by the crew.

"You make a reasonable point, Lieutenant," he slowly began, licking his lips quietly as he considered his next few words. "At this time, however, I'm not prepared to load them out with nuclear weapons. We need at least one raptor on the deck to communicate with those in the air, but we've still got at least one spare one, correct?"

"Yessir," Agun nodded, her tone quite easily betraying her bemusement.

"I want it to execute a FTL jump back to the Caprica system. We need to know how to proceed from here, and if this was an isolated incident or merely the precursor to a larger war. I'll have a brief AAR ready for transmission by the raptor by 1800, launch at 1900; understood?"

"Yessir," the woman echoed again, marching off to comply with his directives.

PO Torrec appeared in front of him mere moments after she'd departed, quickly trying to gain the Major's attention. With a salute, he addressed Xhanda directly: "sir, I have something."

"What's that, Torrec? At ease," he added, beckoning casually for the man to continue. With communications down in their entirety, Torrec had instead deigned to take a look at the DRADIS systems, which were at least partially operational – taking over from Xhanda, who was much less qualified to do so.

"Well, sir," the lanky Caprica native began, smiling slightly and gesturing towards the DRADIS screens, "it's probably best if I show you."

With that, Xhanda following in Torrec's wake, the pair stepped up to the plot table and tilted their heads toward the displays. Torrec's fingers easily glided across a keyboard close-by, and the image on one of the screens quickly began to change. The arrangement of the battlestar group but two hours earlier was now visible on it, Torrec plainly having brought up the logs.

"So, I went through it frame by frame, sir, and I think I've figured out why we're still alive," the PO said with a sardonic smile, glancing sideways at his CO.

"Do tell," Xhanda merely put out, eyes glued to the screen.

Speeding forward several minutes, the PO brought up the DRADIS image from the moments preceding the first nuclear detonation against the Bellerophon. All of the missiles, despite the interference put out by the initial impacts with the other vessels, could be quite easily seen.

"When a nuclear missile detonates, sir, it puts out quite an impressive electromagnetic pulse, not to mention a considerable amount of radiation. This is what generally leaves DRADIS fuzzy in the aftermath of a detonation."

The image jumped barely even half a second, showing, indeed, an EMP pulse. Yet its source wasn't from a nuke striking the Bellerophon, but rather from the center of the vessel instead. The blue and green fuzziness which partially obscured its silhouette on the display was coming FROM it.

"That brilliant bastard," Xhanda appreciatively stated, quickly realizing what'd occurred. "It was too close at that point for it to scramble the targeting lock on the missiles for the Bellerophon, but it would at least keep us alive." Shaking his head slowly, partially in wonder, partially in disbelief, Xhanda turned towards the PO. "Good work, Torrec. See if you can–"

In unison, all heads in the CIC swiveled about and focused upon Lieutenant Vadim and the nav console – which had just brightly and loudly come to life.

"Lieutenant!" the XO roared, somewhat unnecessarily given the relatively short distance between them, "report!"

The youthful lieutenant looked embarrassed and astonished in equal measure, snapping up from his crouched position beside the expansive computer. He slowly glanced between it and Xhanda, licking his lips uncertainly. "Well, sir," he slowly began, gesturing hesitantly towards it, "I unplugged it," he paused here, "and plugged it back in."

"Stop frakking about, Vadim, you can't be serious."

"Well, no, um–. ." his expression turned anxious here, the lieutenant shifting his weight about, fidgeting slightly. "I tried to see if the power feeds were the problem, sir, but after poking around inside I gathered they weren't. The internals looked fine, but any time I'd try to boot the computer back up, it'd crash almost instantly."

"Get Giannoupolis up here," Xhanda briefly interrupted, shouting out the command to the current duty officer – who scrambled to get a courier to do just that. "So what'd you do?"

"I began to get frustrated, so I wiped and reformatted the hard-drives on it."

It took the Major a good ten seconds to come to terms with that, with the notion that the Lieutenant had done that without due consultation with him first. Backups were available for all critical systems, but to completely erase a hard-drive in such a manner was to leave the ship without a vital system for an hour at the minimum. Of course, he had to concede, it hardly mattered right now.

"Good work," he thus softly spit out, sighing thereafter. "And it's now entirely functional?"

"I haven't had a chance to run a diagnostic, sir, but yes. I disconnected it from the network, as well, and that seems to have completely solved the problem." Vadim was visibly relieved to not have received a dressing down for his act, and so instead now pleasantly beamed at the Major. "I think that the problem is related to the network itself, and with the software. I think that reformatting all our drives and dismantling the network will make us secure from–. . Whatever it was."

"It's a computer virus," the Major growled, deadly certain of that. His teeth gritted together and his jaw set once more, a sudden fury swelling within his chest. There was a chance now, a chance to get the Svarog running and into an actual shooting fight. A solution had presented itself to the problem, and Xhanda was quite ready to seize upon it. "Lieutenant Vadim, consult with Major Giannoupolis at this time and begin preparations for systematic reformatting of all our systems and a general removal of all system integration."

–

_Raptor Oh-Oh-Niner_

_Gunstar Svarog_

_BSG 77_

Their readings were hazy, with a fair amount of ambient radiation still circling in the general proximity of the enormous wrecks. With their tools and sensors thus unreliable, the raptors sent out to reconnoiter what little remained on the battlestar group were forced to go in for a full mark one eyeball to figure out just what the state of affairs was.

For all intents and purposes, the area looked clear. There could be bogies hidden amidst the debris and wreckage kicked up by the nuclear detonation, but given how long the raptors had already been out there, it was unlikely. It just didn't make sense for any such deception to go down when by rights the Svarog and all aboard her could have been dead mere moments earlier.

Of the Bellerophon, barely anything at all remained. Having managed to save the Svarog as her last desperate act, she was nevertheless unable to prevent the vast multitude of warheads from impacting her. A pair hit her starboard and port sides, respectively, and another hit straight to her bow finished the battlestar off. Her armor had buckled inward and torn apart, entire compartments, even the ones in the center, being vented into the cold of space.

It almost seemed to Lieutenant Georgios "Escalator" Malach that there were more bodies now floating around in the aftermath than scrap metal. He'd likely have PTSD a few years down the line from witnessing scenes like this, the pilot melancholically mused, steering his raptor past yet another drifting crewman who'd by some circumstance been torn clean in two. It took him a moment to compose himself, for seeing tiny droplets of blood drip away from the dead man's midriff was certainly distracting, if nothing else.

Having finished checking out the Bellerophon, he and his ECO, the esteemed and perpetually giddy Lieutenant Theodore "Straightrod" Lowell, diverted to now instead take a gander at the Augustus and the Thereon, which were further out. From what he and the other raptors on station could tell, there really was nothing salvageable – even remotely – from the Bellerophon. What readings they were able to take seemed to indicate that there were no pressurized compartments remaining in the small section of hull which looked at least relatively intact. Worse yet, the radiation within them was of a ridiculously high level, meaning that any survivors within it would have roasted alive by now even with EVA suits.

The battlestar's escort, the Frejyr, had been similarly hard hit. While she didn't actually sustain even a single direct nuke hit, the enormous blast from the successive hits to the Bellerophon finished her. Having been posted just off the bigger ship's starboard side, the two missiles which impacted there tore into the vessel's weaker ventral armor. She was then split clean in two when the final missile hit the Bellerophon's prow, the battlestar's starboard flight pod torn apart and flung towards the gunstar. Rent in twain, the gunstar's two parts floated off in opposite directions, similarly empty of life and contaminated by radiation.

"Some heavy shit, Escalator," his ECO casually commented from the back of the raptor, Escalator faintly aware of the continuous clicking and clacking of the other man's keyboard.

"We're in scan range already?" Escalator asked, doing his best to meanwhile keep the raptor from hitting any of the floating bodies or debris. A human body couldn't really do much against a raptor, but there was always the chance that it'd hit something important as it rolled off the canopy – like a tail, thruster, or an array somewhere.

"Just about. I'm actually doing an active DRADIS sweep right now of the surrounding area. I'm not seeing any distress beacons, but y'never know, might be a couple of lifepods got out."

"Doubt it, man," the pilot shot back, carefully weaving in between the remains of the Augustus' engine block, it having become separated as the battlestar's hull drifted on ahead without it. "Happened too quick, y'know? Wasn't enough time for an order to abandon ship to even get out, hell. We were last in formation, and that was the case.

"Speakin' of which, how's it look out there? What's the Augustus and Thereon look like?"

The shorter man leaned forward as he stared into his screen, trying to decipher and interpret the results his arcane instruments were providing him. "Take us in a bit," he directed.

Thus bidden, the raptor swooped left, heading in to take a close look at what remained of BSG 77's former flagship.

"No, not the Augustus– she's frakked beyond help. Just a few gun hoists we might be able to knick, but . ." Straightrod paused here, straightening his back and striding on forward to take the co-pilot seat beside Escalator. "It's the Thereon. I'm getting good, steady readings from her. She took a straight hit to the side, but she's still in one piece and got some pressurized compartments."

"Any comms chatter?"

"Negative, not even a distress beacon. As far as they know, though, everyone here's dead but them – probably don't want to tip the toasters off that they're still alive." Straightrod pointed out, grinning as the Thereon came into view.

From the exterior, it was quite obvious that the Svarog and the Thereon were related. Certainly, their general silhouette and design were exceedingly similar, though the former was a touch larger.

"Gods, look at her," breathed Escalator as they drew near, and the true scale of the damage done upon her became clear.

It was different than looking upon the rest of the dead battlegroup, for those hulks they'd previously surveyed were indeed dead. They'd gone out and expired, breathing their last and merely drifting quietly in space now. The Thereon hadn't died – it was instead slowly dying, breathing its frantic last breaths as it was slowly consumed by whatever internal bleeding the nuke had caused. Hundreds of hull breaches were visible upon all sides of the gunstar, most of them having by now stopped venting air – none remaining to be vented. Some continued to do so, and a fire uncontrolled fires could even be glimpsed raging within.

"We've got to work fast," Escalator determined. "We'd best get the shuttle and all the birds here, right frakkin' ricky-tick."

–

_Medbay_

_Gunstar Svarog_

_BSG 77_

In the end, only the Thereon was able to yield anything serviceable to the Svarog. Whilst not yet in dire need (in fact, in no need of all) for extra or spare parts, Major Xhanda had nonetheless wisely judged that any supplies they could potentially extract from the remnants of the battlestar group would be of immense use to them in the long run. If there was a war raging, with logistics potentially uncertain, it'd be a great idea to conserve and carefully utilize ALL resources available to them. If there was no war – this being merely a skirmish – then, well, surely no one at Fleet HQ could find fault in him denying the enemy potentially vital equipment?

Two hundred crewmen had been pulled from the wreckage, the majority having been concentrated within the Thereon's medical bay at the center of the dying gunstar and a few adjacent compartments. There had been no way to reach these areas from the vented flight deck, several fires raging uncontrolled between them, so the Svarog's raptor teams had to cut several holes and allow the Svarog's only shuttle to establish a connection.

In the end, two hundred and seven personnel had been rescued of the Thereon's original complement of nearly two thousand, much to Xhanda's dismay. Her medical team would be of great utility to the Svarog, Xhanda had no doubt, but the majority of the survivors had all the classic signs of shock and severe trauma from what he could see – even the Thereon's former medical chief, Captain Diana Rochard.

"Captain?" he asked again, snapping his fingers in front of her face. With the beds overflowing at this point with wounded personnel from the Thereon, the Captain, unwounded herself, had settled for just sitting against one of the med-bay's unused walls.

She snapped forward, her eyes quickly opening, her expression one of absolute terror. "Captain Diana Rochard," she mechanically, almost frantically, let out, "serial seven-oh-niner-oh-one-niner kappa-phi-kappa, Gunstar Thereon."

"Captain," Xhanda repeated once more, doing his best to remain calm and composed despite his growing irritation with the woman. "I need you to talk to me. Did you have any communication with any of the other parts of the Thereon before you were rescued?"

She was pretty, he considered, even covered in blood as she was. Her blonde hair was in a state of general disarray, half of it neatly tied into a bun behind her head and the rest hanging free around the sides of her face. There was blood all across her formerly white doctor's coat and uniform, and even a few scorch marks at the edges. Her features, patrician and lean, presently had an almost panicked cast to them.

It thus took her several moments to respond in her state, refusing to make direct eye contact with the Major. She'd been through a lot, Xhanda judged, quickly gathering the obvious.

"No, sir," she could only let out, shaking her head from side to side. "No, sir, no. Comms were down, fires were everywhere. Only the med-bay was clear," she said, that sideways movement of her head becoming a forward and backward one – the woman nodding repeatedly.

Stretching himself upright, the Major could only offer her a comforting pat on the shoulder before he turned away. He supposed he'd have to be content with that, but he endeavored to order the raptors to do another pass regardless, just in case. Pacing ahead into the med-bay proper, he allowed his eyes to easily wander to and fro, attempting to take in and come to terms with the human devastation done upon the Thereon's crew. The majority here were those who'd managed to survive the first few hours, and so were likely to go on to live – hopefully – full and happy lives in relatively good health. Yet there were still a few truly shocking cases, ones Xhanda knew he had been trained to be ready for, but nonetheless found himself almost unable to confront.

A young man on a guerney, his blood having already soaked through the white mattress upon which he laid, screaming incoherently as orderlies around him tried to stabilize the bleeding from his two missing legs. A marine with a metal strut quite literally jutting through his bicep, having pierced clean through, sitting upon a wooden chair with his gaze tilted upward – doped up so hard he had no idea where he was. An ensign with her entire left side completely burnt, the flesh red, aching, and weeping.

"Sir, if you're not here to help, I need to politely ask that you get out of my med-bay," the Svarog's seemingly indomitable and perennially bad-tempered medical chief stated, having approached Xhanda while he was so busy letting his thoughts wander. Major Hiram Attais had started his career in medicine as a simple paramedic in Caprica City, Xhanda recalled from his file, and now, twenty years later, was a full doctor aboard a gunstar in the Colonial Fleet. A broad, tanned man, he'd spent the last few years keeping the med-bay filled with nothing else but his personality, the force of it somehow managing to keep the crew free from anything more than the common cold. "Got enough useless hammerhands wandering around," he mumbled, slipping off his bloodied latex gloves and casually shooting them into a nearby overflowing wastebin.

"How's it look?" Xhanda blandly inquired, peering ahead at Attais. He never quite knew what to make of the man, but he'd carefully judged based on his CO's interaction with him that there was really no point in confronting him about his mannerisms.

"How's it look to you, kiddo, sir?" Attais obnoxiously responded, gesturing around himself. "You've been staring at no-legs over there, you go and tell me. Shouldn't be surprised that this is what we get when only the medical bay is what survives. Actually– shit, we gotta get to depot or resupply point soon."

Xhanda allowed a brow to rise, surprised. "I thought we'd filled up our stocks on meds before we left on patrol?"

"Yeah, and I know what'cher thinkin', but sick-call's been as quiet as always," Attais agreed, "but the trouble is, pretty much everyone we pulled from the Thereon's dealing with some form of radiation sickness. I've got enough rad-meds to keep them alive– hell, most will probably stay alive and relatively healthy even after I've run out, but still. Ain't going to be a fun time for most of them, and the sooner I get 'em, the sooner they'll be effective."

"Would the radiation have compromised the Thereon's own supply of anti-rad medication?"

"Well, if you've pulled it out too, that might just make my problems disappear. I make no promises, but I don't think so. Don't suppose you've already done that?"

"Not yet," Xhanda murmured, severely displeased by the oversight. Everything but the obvious things. They'd already managed to strip a half-dozen guns from the Thereon, along with the ammofeeds and some of the targetting computers, and left them to rest idle in the hangar bay for the time being. One of the munitions stores in the port side had somehow managed to avoid going up in the fires, and so had been quickly liberated and its stocks reshuffled among the Svarog's own. They'd even taken what food and water they could, hauling them back in enormous drums with raptors and the shuttle. Yet medicine had been forgotten, and Xhanda felt like an idiot. "I'll make it a priority."

"Be a damned fine thing if you did, at that, Major," Attais said, spinning about and heading off to address a particularly loud patient.

–

_CIC_

_Gunstar Svarog_

_BSG 77_

"Final systems check," Lieutenant Vadim first said, "nav is green."

"Comms, green."

"FTL, green."

"Gunnery, green."

"Engines, green."

"DRADIS, green."

"All stations ready for initial bootup," Vadim sighed, making a mark on the clipboard beside him which had the checklist. "All right people, it's been six straight hours," he said, smiling despite himself up at the various officers and enlisted personnel scattered throughout the CIC. "Let's make sure this works, 'cus I'm damn eager for some rack time. Now, initiate."

With a gentle murmur of muted laughter, a chorus of clicks and gentle key-strokes echoed through the otherwise silent CIC. Everyone sat in quiet and barely suppressed anticipation as they waited to see what the results of their careful efforts were, several of them grinning with unconcealed joy as each and every computer and system slowly came back on.

"All right!" Vadim exuberantly let out, walking in-between stations, monitoring their respective start-up processes. "Everyone start running a diagnostic as soon as it's finished booting up, we want to make sure that we're going to be operating with everything working as it damn well should."

A small cheer rose as all the lights overhead flared into life, a gentle, barely audible humming felt in the hull itself as the reactor and engines simultaneously awoke.

"The gods are good," the lieutenant murmured, returning to his station. "We're ready to go."

"Godsdamned," Xhanda exclaimed upon entering the CIC, his eyes wide with wonder and a bright grin on his face as he looked around, "it worked."

"Yessir," Vadim happily responded, tossing the Major a quick salute as he set the nav station to perform a quick diagnostic. "We're currently doing a final check-up to make sure everything's working optimally, but it seems that the reformat and network wipe did the job. Captain Cai wants to speak to you, actually, sir," he added.

With a firm nod and a slight bounce to his step, Xhanda stepped up to the plot table, lifting up the phone there.

"Link me to gunnery, Torrec," he instructed, and soon a line was opened to the ordnance officer and gunnery chief, Captain Beverley Cai.

"This is the XO, what's up Captain?" Xhanda cheerfully inquired, allowing his eyes to wander as he spoke in muted tones to Cai.

"Sir," the officer on the other line crisply responded, Cai having made a reputation for herself up to this point by being very direct and to the point, "due to the hard-drive wipe, we've lost pretty much all our calibrations for the guns and the modular precision versus accuracy algorithms."

"That's not optimal, Captain. Can you make the necessary adjustments and fixes as it stands?"

"Yessir, but you won't like it," she quickly stated.

"Humor me," Xhanda nonetheless let out, idly shifting his weight from one leg to another as he leaned slightly into the table.

Her voice never wavered as she thus elaborated: "sir, without a fixed point in space relative to us to perform targeting calibrations upon, it'll take us a significant amount of time to make the calculations and modifications necessary."

"How significant are we talking about here?" came the obvious question.

"I approximate two days, at the earliest, sir," Cai snapped back after a moment's delay, having presumably taken a moment to look at her notes. "That's just the KEWs, though. It's not as important to calibrate the flak guns, but we'll want to do so nonetheless if we intend to be one-hundred percent combat effective."

"And how quickly," Xhanda thus slowly asked, an idea forming in his mind, "are we talking about if you've got targets?"

"An hour or two at worst, sir."

His grin slowly melted away as he mulled the idea over in his head. It was perhaps a bit drastic, but it was crucial to get the Svarog into the fight and combat-ready as soon as possible. The raptor they'd sent out nearly six or seven hours back hadn't reported back, and so Xhanda could only assume the worst in this circumstance. He'd doubtless be assailed by guilt about this somewhere down the line, he mused, but there really was no alternative – they couldn't afford to spend two entire days, if not more, out here while a war was potentially raging.

"All right, Cai, listen up," he began, stepping over to the plot table where Vadim had already marked out the position of the debris field created by the battlestar group's destruction. "I'm going to give you some targets in five mikes, be ready to use them well. Should be durable enough for what you've got in mind."

"Yessir, gunnery is standing by." And with that, their discussion was over.

"Helm, get her moving, align us at one-nine-oh off of the Bellerophon's portside engine section; say, three, four thousand out."

A warm feeling swelled up inside of him as the ship began to ever so slightly shake. It was a gentle and subtle vibration noticeable only to those that'd spent some time aboard spacecraft, and one which left an odd feeling of absence in spacefarers when it was gone. The engines had kicked into life, propelling the gunstar forward as Xhanda directed her into the cloud of metal and bodies that had once been BSG 77. Moments later, as they'd maneuvered themselves beside the largest remaining chunk of the Bellerophon, Xhanda ordered a fullstop; that slight vibration disappearing.

He decided that he needed to say something. The crew needed to hear his voice, and – gods knew – he needed to hear something encouraging. "Give me the ship," he said to Torrec, picking up the 1MC and holding it up to his face.

The first sound they'd hear would be a loud intake of breath.

"This is the XO," the Major slowly began, trying to deliberately choose his words. "Almost ten hours ago, this ship and our group encountered an unknown contact while we were out here on patrol.

"As far as we can tell, this enemy was able to shut down the network and computer systems of all the ships in our group, including the battlestars Augustus and Bellerophon. With our ships defenseless, the enemy vessel then launched nuclear warheads at each of our ships, annihilating all save for us."

He paused here, now keenly aware that a great many eyes were upon him – thousands more ears listening to him throughout the ship.

"We survived due to the heroism and ingenuity of Commander Geogron, gods rest his soul, aboard the Battlestar Bellerophon. The enemy believed us destroyed because he managed to fire off an EM pulse prior to the destruction of his command, this giving the impression of a massive thermonuclear detonation.

"As it stands, we have no idea what the current state of affairs is back in the Twelve Colonies. We've managed to now get all of our systems operational, but we've had no news come back to us – unsurprising given the distance we're out." He tactfully decided not to mention the missing raptor.

"We are currently operating on the worst-case scenario, for anything else would have us be derelict in our duties. We can only assume that the vessel we encountered was Cylon, and that the attack on BSG 77 was the precursor to a full-out attack upon the colonies."

Xhanda felt almost as though he could feel the air move, as though two thousand sets of lungs simultaneously drew in a breath. It certainly looked that way up here in the CIC.

"We need to get this ship into full combat order and assess the situation. The sacrifice of our comrades aboard the Augustus, the Bellerophon, the Thereon, and the Frejya will not be in vain, of this I assure all of you. They will continue to be of utility to the Colonial Fleet even after their destruction."

He tried to find some final platitude to say, some final line to impart some small measure of confidence and encouragement upon the crew. A bead of sweat dripped down across his brow, he suddenly cognizant of just how much activity he'd been involved in recently.

"Stand by your shipmates, your duties, and observe your training," Xhanda blandly concluded, sighing. "That is all."

A dull drumming began to echo all across the ship mere seconds later, Captain Cai having courteously waited for him to finish before testing the Svarog's guns upon the Bellerophon's drifting hulk.


End file.
